EO Drabble Challenge - special challenge for Wynefred
by DeansBabyBird
Summary: the challenge this week was to write some hurt Dean for Wynefred. Here you go hunny, i hope you like!


E/O Special Challenge for Wynefred

**The challenge this week was to write some hurt Dean for Wynefred, Here you go hunny, hope you like! **

"He'll be fine..."

I move slowly, approaching him with quiet, deliberate movements only, as one would a skittish, wild creature for that is how he appears. Like he is cornered, frightened maybe, so I make sure I demonstrate nothing that could be misconstrued as a threat or place him, them, in further danger. I sense he is too used to that, too schooled to see threat in others and I know in his manner, his stance, that he can and will respond violently if he sees fit.

Especially now, when his brother lies vulnerable on the table, newly sutured but still groggy from the lump the size of an egg on the back of his head. Yes, I sense that any threat to Sam, I have learned that's his name as the green-eyed one called it often enough as we attended to him, would warrant nothing but aggression on this man's part.

"It's a hell of a bump and we'll keep him overnight because he's concussed but he will fine. Honestly...so you can relax. Okay?"

The older man smiles just slightly but there is sincerity in the gesture. It curves just the edges of his soft, full lips, splitting the cut there further and a bead of blood wells up teasingly.

The crimson highlights the pallor of his face reminding me of my suspicion that he is hurt, maybe worse than his brother and so I take a calculated risk and reach out to touch the sleeve of his filthy jacket. He starts violently at my touch and I jerk my hand away as if scalded.

His hiss of pain is unguarded and all too real and as I watch, the tremble I thought I saw in him as I sutured his brother becomes a more patent sway.

"So..."

I say as I slowly move to his left and pull the small plastic chair up close behind him as he fights for his feet.

"Will you let me look at your injuries now that your brother is done with?"

He hasn't sat as I wanted but has clamped his dirty, blood-stained fingers onto the chair back as the feeble plastic affords him a little stability but his left hand is still thrust defensively into the pocket of his coat.

"It's your hand?"

I query as I turn and reach for a sterile dressing pack.

"Or your arm?"

I raise my eyebrow in question and for a moment I think he will deny me. I see written all over him that he finds it near impossible to admit any sort of fragility but thankfully something in my demeanor must convince him it's safe.

"B...both..."

He mumbles, his voice rough and a little slurred. I nod and gesture to his coat.

"Can you take that off?"

He dips his head marginally in answer and slowly goes to draw his hidden hand from the pocket. The movement causes him pain that is evident in the dilation of his beautiful green eyes and an increasing pallor but he keeps the gasps that seam desperate to be voiced, silent.

"Here...let me help you..."

I move to his side and ease the slide of the injured limb from the damp, soiled fabric and rally the chair to the crook of his knees, giving him little option but to finally sit.

He does so with a soft groan and I am relieved that he has capitulated because he is huge, even more solidly muscular than his brother, and i know from experience he would be irritatingly heavy to lift should he fall.

He cradles the arm into his body as I open the sterile pack and lay the paper towel on the small, wheeled table I maneuver before him.

"So..."

I say as I take my seat opposite him, pulling on my sterile gloves.

"Can I see?"

He swallows hard. I'm not sure he realizes I see the unconscious gesture of nervousness but he does attempt to lift the damaged limb to the sterile field. He gets a few inches but then stops as his pain clearly peaks.

"Wait!"

I caution, and he watches me, sweat beading his too pale face.

"You need to let me help you."

I rise and move carefully to stand beside him but pause a moment until I see the silent war inside of him find a winner. He nods, imperceptibly and gingerly I take hold of his arm and lift it as gently as I can toward the table. I feel his shoulder, or maybe his collar bone grind beneath my hand as i settle his arm on the towel.

"Your shoulder too?"

I look into his exhausted eyes as I sit back before him and he nods more firmly, his good hand grasping his upper arm, rubbing at it to try and soothe it.

"Yeah...

His voice is gravelly, like he is all-shouted, or maybe screamed out, and I wonder, briefly, what has got it so but then he is talking again so I push the thought away and focus on his words.

"I...I think I got it...p...popped back in but it's still sore."

"You've dislocated it before?"

He smiles wearily and through all the dirt I see how handsome he would be, clean and pain free.

"A few times, yeah."

I nod, wondering what the hell these men, brothers, do to get so beat up, so often, but I hold my tongue."

"Okay, I'll check it after I look at your hand. Alright?"

He returns my nod and we both cast our eyes down to the table.

His arm is a mess. There is a long stab wound through the back of his hand and as I gently turn it palm up I see it goes right through to the other side. It looks as if someone has pinned his hand to something with a big blade of some type.

"How did you get this?"

I look from the deep, bleeding wound to his face. He smiles shakily.

"I slipped...eating lunch."

He lies blatantly and a small bit of me is furious for taking me for a fool but as I watch him the look on his face confirms I am indeed much better not knowing who skewered his hand so viciously.

"Okay."

Is all I can manage to say as we both know I should ask for more answers but silently agree that I won't. I reach for the scissors and move to cut his shirt sleeve. He makes no objection and I gently cleave the blood-crusted sleeve and let it fall away from his wrist and forearm. His flesh beneath is an angry series of parallel, linear slashes. Some are newer and bloodier than others but they are all deep and precise and look cruelly deliberate.

"Did you do this to yourself?"

The question is fair and understandable but he bristles a little and his frown of pain morphs into a scowl as he goes to withdraw his wounded arm. I catch his hand and he hisses at the jounce my touch delivers. He eyeballs me angrily for a moment and though I am hugely intimidated, I stand my ground and eventually he acquiesces.

"No...wasn't me..."

He speaks softly and holds my gaze for a moment. His anger bleeds slowly from his eyes and I am amazed that for a second or two he lets me see what else is within him. There is exhaustion and pain and a surprising vulnerability and I realize, this man lets very few people ever see that and I know I am privileged. I have no time to dwell on it though as it is gone as soon as it came and he is speaking again.

"Trust me, you really don't wanna know...what...did this to me."

It's an odd thing to say, not who but what, however the soft dread of the statement has me believing it's truth absolutely. The implications terrify me.

"Okay."

I whisper, sudden fear making me breathless and the tension in his arm beneath my hand lessens as he knows I will not pursue this.

"Thank you, for helping us."

He says softly, kindly, as if I have bestowed grace on him with my lack of curiosity and I nod tightly and move my shaking hands about the task of easing his pain, knowing it is most surely he who has blessed me by his silence this day.

**Ends **

**Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it. **


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